


Across the Universe

by AtlinMerrick



Series: Clydeland [2]
Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Sherlock (TV), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Clydeland, M/M, Stenslyde, Techienician, Will happily write more of this series for any pairing if someone prompts! Prompty prompt PROOOMPTS!, benarmie, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-31 05:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12675201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: Across the universes…from 221B to theFinalizer,Asgard to a North Carolina bar, herein are tales of true loves, Sherlock and John, Hux and Kylo, Thor and Loki, Matt and Techie, Clyde Logan and Stensland, each wee stand-alone fic prompted by you.





	1. Royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter:  
> Clyde & Stensland  
> John & Sherlock  
> Hux & Kylo

"…and those two are soldiers both, as you know."

The skinny man starfishes pale arms across the glossy bar and gazes up at the bartender, besotted. "Tell me how you know again? Did you serve with one of them lovey?"

The bartender gently touches the skinny man's nose. "You know I didn't."

It's late on a Tuesday night and only a few customers are in, so the bartender is happy to entertain his sweetheart. "But since you ask so nicely."

Darning his chin at a table of four tucked back in shadow he says, "The little sandy-haired fella that the curly one calls John? He's using all the shiny surfaces in the bar to keep an eye out for trouble. What that means to me is he's used to finding it, and more n'that, he knows how to handle it when it comes along."

The skinny man pillows his head on one arm, gaze going from besotted to adoring. "Just like you lovey. What about the other one?"

"The one with the slicked red-hair not even half so pretty as yours? What's his big boyfriend call him?"

Clyde knows the red-head's name, the one that'd look a lot like his sweetheart if he just smiled some, but they do this on slow nights, feed one another familiar lines for their own diverting little play.

"Mmm, he calls him lots of things but mostly Hux or Ari. Sometimes General when he wants to be uppity."

Clyde nods. "I do recall now, yes. Well you see how Hux's back is so straight and his jaw set just so? That's a high-ranking officer for sure; never gives an order twice."

The next bit's the bit Stensland likes most. "What," he whispers, "do you know about their boys?"

In truth Clyde doesn't know much about the four men at that shadowy table, but those strangers have helped him pass long nights with his sweetheart for a couple evenings now, so Clyde says, "And what're their names?"

Stensland fiddles with the black fingers of Clyde's prosthetic hand, then kisses each. "The one with the curly hair is Sherlock and the one with the wavy hair is Kylo."

Clyde takes a few moments to let himself believe he can feel those kisses on his missing limb, then murmurs, "I know all about Sherlock and Kylo over there because I know _you,_ sweetheart. You know when they swan on up to the bar for drinks, heads high, shoulders back? Well you can just tell they're used to having every eye on their beautiful faces. I wouldn't be surprised if where they're from they're somethin' like royalty. And even if they're not, well their boys think they are, the way their eyes follow everything they do."

Here it is, Stensland thinks, the best part, the very, very best part.

Clyde slides his blood-and-bone hand under his sweetheart's chin, lifts his head from his skinny arm and whispers against his mouth. "It's just the way mine follow you sweetheart, my own lovey, my queen."

*

John Watson grins into the last of his pint. "And there it is."

Kylo Ren turns in his chair, not bothering with circumspection. "The night's first kiss?"

Hux makes tsking sounds and turns Kylo's head back around. "Be good, you ridiculous man."

"Oh let him stare, general, they watch us as much as we watch—" Sherlock's phone pips before he can say more and he jumps up, rattling glasses. "The go-ahead at last John, the game is on!"

With a finger-fiddly wave, rather like royalty, Sherlock swans toward the door, texting furiously. John stands, nods curtly. "Thanks for passing a couple evenings with us gents. Hope you continue to enjoy your holiday." And with that the good doctor Watson quick-marches after his husband.

With a dramatic sigh of immediate boredom Kylo Ren starfishes his arms across the small table. After a few seconds he gazes up at his general. "You know—"

"Don't say it."

"—you'd look so, so cute—"

"Don't do it."

"—with your hair all—"

With a little finger-fiddly wave, rather like royalty, Kylo uses the Force to muss Hux's hair soft but before Hux can have the conniption he's more than due, Kylo grabs his hand and drags him to his feet. "Come on, General Fussy, let's flirt with the natives."

Armitage Hux allows himself to be tugged toward the bar as if unwilling, but in all honesty he's enjoying this little backwater planet and its drinking establishments. Especially this one, with the ginger princess draped across one side of the bar and the massive black-haired beauty on the other.

Hmmm. Hux's back goes straight and his jaw sets just so.

If the natives are amenable to a bit of being ordered about maybe, just maybe, they can _all_ enjoy a little finger-fiddling later.

—  
_My initial salvo in a series where every chapter stands alone, each telling a tiny story across all the fandom universes and ships I love: John and Sherlock, Techie and Matt, Thor and Loki, Hux and Kylo, Clyde and Stensland—together, separate, whatever's prompted (this one came from a_secret_scribbler) so please prompt here,[Tumblr](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AtlinMerrick). My aim is to publish most weekdays so, on your mark, get set…!_


	2. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techie & Matt
> 
> To other eyes they're strange these two, doing things people don't do. But you know what? Matt loves what Techie does, Techie loves what Matt does and that's the end of that.

_Breathe._

Techie inhaled.

_Just…breathe._

And exhaled. He _breathed_ on the drip-drip-drip of Matthew Kee's small wound, wet breath, hot breath, lips almost-not-quite touching skin.

He breathed as techs worked away on the other side of the malfunctioning safety door behind them, the one that had caught Matt's hand, slicing a gash across his palm and Matt'll tell you that that breath was better than bacta, it was…it was Techie looking up as he exhaled _hot,_ it was the hairs on Matt's arm standing to attention as big blue eyes whirred wide because Techie can make them do that, of all the shitty things his eyes are—old, old, _old_ —they're also wonderful in what they can do if Gala wills it.

So when he wants to say _I want you_ but can't, when he wants to say _I see you_ but can't, when he wants and wants Mattie but there aren't words, Galacian Asha'Techk _looks_ instead and makes his mech eyes click-click wide, pupils as big and as black as space.

He did that now, breathing on Matt's bleeding hand. _Click-click,_ those mech eyes went and it was that as much as Techie's breath sending trails of goosebumps skittering down Matt's legs and you know what? Matt didn't hurt anymore.

To other eyes they're strange these two, doing things people don't do. But you know what? Matt loves what Techie does, Techie loves what Matt does and that's the end of that.

So even as techs finally crowded noisy through the now-opened door, Matt loved that Gala healed him by breathing, and Gala loved that Matt leaned down and _kissed_ his own hand, the better to get at the wetness Techie'd left there.

 _You okay, you okay?_ the techs all asked at once.

Forehead to forehead both Matt and Techie nodded.

They were much, much more than okay.

—  
_Winklepicker inspired this when she talked about Matt and his Techie just…breathing._


	3. Poppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock
> 
> There's not much a man can undo, but if John Watson could change one thing in this world it wouldn't be getting shot.

You can't have a flashback of something you've never lived.

And besides that, _besides,_ John Watson does not believe in flashbacks and even if he did, even if he _did_ believe you could suddenly re-live the past, well this particular shitty vision isn't even _in_ his god damn past.

No sir, no, John Watson never stood in front of his unit on a particularly sun-blasted desert day, calmly telling them "—and that's it, I'm going home now. You take care." Except right now, over this tepid cuppa, that's John's flashback and do you know what? His id or his superego or what-the-hell- _ever_ can just _keep_ that little bit of fuck-no to its damn self.

The real problem with all this is that John doesn't know how to _deal_ with all this because nearly every single year he forgets it's going to happen, forgets he'll feel a twist in his spine, ash in his mouth, that he'll stare too long at tea gone cold.

Sherlock Holmes though, he doesn't forget and it took no time before he understood: John's greatest pain was not getting shot in Afghanistan, no. When the red poppies start appearing on lapels come autumn, John hurts because he feels he failed his unit, he feels he left those men and women when they needed him.

There's not much a man can undo, but if John Watson could change one thing in this world it wouldn't be getting shot—it's because of that bullet he met Sherlock—it would be the _when_ of the wound, it would mean still being there when his friends needed him.

Unfortunately John can't undo what's done and though Sherlock's a genius, he hasn't figured out how to do that either. So most Novembers John's soul goes out of sorts and in those grey days Sherlock does what he can. Mostly that's continuing to love John after each snipe, fret, or frown.

And if they happen to suddenly have a half dozen mad-dash cases to distract them for a couple weeks? Well that's the least Sherlock can do.

Captain John Watson has already done so much more than that.

—  
_Verity Burns prompted me to remember Remembrance Day and here I've referenced thoughts shared by Adam Driver, who was discharged from the military after an accident and just before his unit deployed to Iraq. Thank you all who served; I hope your return was gentler than John's._


	4. If You Were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor & Loki
> 
> Thor lies in a too-small Midgardian bed in a hotel not far from Barton's place—'I could really use some good old-fashioned muscle on the farm tomorrow'—and he misses Loki so much that he dozily dreams the same words over and over.
> 
> _If you were here, oh if you were here._

There's a problem with loving a shapeshifter.

You'll see him in _everyone._

Take Thor Odinson's word for this, if you love a man who can glamour himself into any man, you'll see him in _every_ man.

If you want to.

Sometimes Thor very much wants to. Sometimes, when too long away from home and longing for his love, Thor looks into strange eyes and tells himself he sees Loki.

In that Midgardian cafe this morning for example—he's growing quite fond of those warming pumpkin drinks—he watched a man look at his companion through long lashes and Thor saw his brother in their bed, lusty gaze an invitation and challenge both.

In Banner's chaotic lab this afternoon—he dreads these visits; why are there so many _breakable_ things there?—Bruce pressed his fingers to his lips in deep thought and Thor saw Loki doing the same all those years ago, hushing himself when they still hid away, ducking into shadows to touch each other and _want._

In Stark's office this evening—does he _need_ one bigger than a throne room? really?—Tony calls up a dozen times a dozen glowing schematics, expansively explains his latest bit of genius for battling whatever beings are on the rampage _this_ time and in those sly grins Thor sees his god of mischief, his brother, his love.

And so after a day of all that is it really any wonder that Thor lies in a too-small Midgardian bed in a hotel not far from Barton's place—'I could really use some good old-fashioned muscle on the farm tomorrow'—and misses Loki so much that he dozily dreams the same words over and over: _if you were here, oh if you were here._

It's a long minute before the faint scent of pomegranates registers to Thor and when it at last does he smiles beneath the bed clothes and breathes deeper. Maybe he's the god of dreams too because quickly it turns to the scent of _sex,_ to how Loki smells when Loki _wants._

Maybe he could put a hand over his mouth to hush himself, all those years ago when they both still thought their mother cared or their father would disapprove, but Loki could never hide the _smell_ on him when he grew hard, when he grew hungry and wanted Thor to—

"Touch me brother."

Thor opened his eyes and felt his soul shift easy as he murmured. "I recognise that whisper. You were her, you were that tiny woman who talked to me in the corridor."

Loki Laufyson, a mischievous man who can glamour himself as _any_ man—or woman—hummed and pulled the blankets over them both. Then, in this unremarkable part of Midgard, Thor and Loki went about loving each other like gods.

Which pretty much meant the family on the right had to change rooms, the couple on the left took notes, and every one of the cleaners next day had a sudden and inexplicable craving for pomegranates.

—  
_First, in my head canon Loki smells of pomegranates, second this was inspired by that "if you were here" moment in Thor: Ragnarok, and third, I've written only one other bit about these two and it's in the last chapter in[Keeping It Loki](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1746164/chapters/3729578). I would love prompts!_


	5. A Few Constants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock
> 
> John and Sherlock like many things, dislike many other things, and sometimes each of those things change. There are, however, constants. Those things are these…

In their long and interesting lives Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will like many things, stop liking many others, and'll never like a great many more. There will, however, be some constants. A few of those will be these:

_London._

Though they retire to the countryside eventually—a process that'll take at _least_ ten years to actually resemble an actual retirement—John and Sherlock never _quite_ leave London. There will always be scarves and pajamas and shoes and hearts tucked away in the houses of London-based friends and family, and it is with these they'll spend holidays and long weekends and 'just no reasons.'

_Cases._

Even when Sherlock's turned his fine-tuned attentions to the society of bees, studying their dances, their mating, their honey, their homes, he never entirely gives up his love of the lurid.

This means that even into their eighties the boys will be running the unsavoury element to ground, finding the Giggling Garrotter hiding in a Greystones warehouse outside Dublin, or tracking the Bloody Baroness and her Band of Merry Women to their Battersea bolt-hole.

_Science._

Each man approaches this topic in his own way and if you ask John, his way "is the regular way Sherlock, the way ordinary people do it, the way _other_ ordinary people can then also do it." These very words said by John to his love on the many, many, _many_ occasions when his love produces stunning experimental outcomes he is then unable to repeat because the fire accidentally caused by a less-stunning experiment has burned the first experiment's notes to ash.

Sherlock, on the other hand, has absolutely nothing to say about the, air quotes _science_ end air quotes, that John holds so dear because instead of saying anything Sherlock _snores._ As in pretends to be so bored by John's _Internal Medicine Monthly_ or _Private Care Supplement_ that he feigns narcolepsy each time he has to so much as look at them.

_Style._

Though each man's fashion sense changes over time, both John and Sherlock always have distinct and divergent styles. This means that John's brown brogues can never be mistaken for Sherlock's black Burberrys. Similarly, the good doctor's short pea coats can't be mistaken for the consulting detective's long peacock ones.

Likewise, when each man is dressed to his respective nines, both evidence their confidence in ways dissimilar but complimentary. John Watson in a bow tie and tuxedo sports a straight spine and a swagger, while Sherlock Holmes wears a serene smile and slow-walks like a queen. That each does so because he's proud to have on his arm the other goes without saying.

_Lingerie._

Bringing this list to its final constant is this: Frilly underthings _under_ their things.

This one's a bit of a cheat though, because John _did_ stop liking lingerie pretty early on. Not a fan of "a piece of string, Sherlock, it's a damned piece of string" strung up his arse cheeks, John also maintains lace itches, and besides every time he wears something silky and sexy he's irrationally certain Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Chatterjee _and_ Angelo suddenly have x-ray eyes. So no, no thank you, John does not like lingerie vis-à-vis _John._

Sherlock being Sherlock, he doesn't care if the outline of his bralette shows through his button-up or if the lines of his boy-cut panties are obvious beneath slim-fit Armanis. As a matter of fact, given a chance, Sherlock Holmes would happily walk the length of Baker Street in nothing but the knickers John has bought him, _absolutely_ including the nearly-see through pale purple ones and the tiny emerald pair with the slit up the back, panties so small that their slit is permanently splayed, leaving the crack of Sherlock's bountiful back end on ripe display.

Which inevitably leads to John or Sherlock splayed. Which they both like.

Because _that's_ a constant.

—  
_Joan asked for a little something about Sherlock, lingerie, and shoes and here's what came to mind, I hope you like, Joan! P.S. I'll be publishing these most days of the week; prompts for Johnlock, Thorki, Kylux, BenArmie, Techienician, or Clydeland happily accepted!_


	6. Squeaky Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben Organa & Armitage Hux
> 
> ”I have an advanced degree in applied mathematics but it’s taken me four feckin’ months of you going all red-faced when I clean to finally, at last, put two-and-two together.“
> 
> Ben Organa doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t— "And?”

Benjamin Organa is not ashamed. He's not. Because this isn't shameful. It isn't. It's just that—

 _Oh god oh god, he can hear Armitage using the bristle brush._ Ben leans against their bedroom door as if that'll close it harder.

—it's just that maybe Ben's a little bit embarrassed, all right? A little. It's not exactly something he's come across before, it's not in any of the magazines he's looked at or the books or on websites or anything. Except embarrassed isn't really the right word for this either. It's just—

 _No no no noooo. He can smell it. Ari's pouring more bleach._ Ben puts his shoulder to the closed door as if that'll close it _more._

—it's just that it's awkward, okay? Like food allergies or a chronic illness, you just want to find the right time to bring it up. Except Ben'll tell you good luck in figuring out when _that_ is because—

 _Shit shit shit was that the snap of gloves?_ Did Armitage just put rubber gloves on _over_ his rubber gloves?

—because there _is_ no right time to tell your boyfriend you love it when he deep cleans. That you've imagined him on his hands-and-knees punishing the grout with elbow grease. You visualize him putting a second pair of rubber gloves on over the first like some sort of sexy cleaning superhero. That the sharp crack of green rubber over yellow does—

"Ben?"

_Fuck fuck fuck, no no no._

Ben closes his eyes, holds his breath, and pretends he's invisible. Technically, he is, because Ari's is on the other side of their closed bedroom door.

"Ben?"

But Armitage knows. He knows Ben's there the same way he knows Ben's in a sad mood by the way he punctuates a two word text. It's one of the many things he loves about Ari but he's not so sure Ari will love this thing about _him._ Then the gig is up when Ben unexpectedly—

_Whoosh._

—exhales, because he's got shit cardiovascular health and the lung capacity of a particularly small kitten.

"Yeah?" he squeaks, because he _is_ embarrassed and he _is_ ashamed and he's a whole festival of other messy emotions to boot and if he's lucky Armitage has wandered off except Ben knows he hasn't because he hears him on the other side of the door. Hears him breathing. Weird breathing.

Ben opens the door.

He looks at Armitage. He's standing there barehanded, sweaty from serious scrubbing, and he's kind of panting.

Armitage looks at Ben. Specifically Ben's crotch. When he sees the bulge there his nervous little huffs slow down. Even out. Eventually he says, "I have an advanced degree in applied mathematics but it's taken me four feckin' months of you going all red-faced when I clean to finally, at last put two-and-two together."

Ben blinks super fast. Then, very softly, he says, "Hu?"

Armitage's eyes are bright. He reaches behind him, tugs something from his back pocket. It's a fresh pack of rubber gloves. They're yellow and perfect and smooth.

Ari grins. Then he rips the package open with his teeth.

Ben's not even a little bit ashamed to say he nearly comes.

They make a _perfect_ mess right there, against the bedroom door.

—  
_Combine[this photo](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/167713570014/fic-squeaky-clean-across-the-universe-i-have) Winklepicker sent me as a prompt with another friend's admission he has a fetish for the scent of bleach and this story just goes and writes itself. *dismount*_


	7. Little Cockatoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde & Stensland
> 
> Stensland Feye has the fluttery eyelashes, the pretty accent, and the wan slimness of a consumptive poet, but a poet he is not. That is always gonna be Clyde Logan.

"My little poet."

That's what Clyde Logan goes and says as he plants an elbow on the bar and beams at the man on the other side.

That man, Stensland Feye, has just finished talking about the _festive bonhomie_ he feels when consuming _holiday refreshments._ Gazing over his hot buttered rum Stens grins his upside down grin and says to the bartender who is also his boyfriend who is also the prettiest brown-eyed mountain this side of the North Carolina border, "Go on with you."

Bar track lights and a big old heart full of adoration give Clyde Logan's eyes a festive twinkle. "It's true darlin'," he says, holding up one flesh-and-blood hand to count off the black prosthetic fingers of the other.

"In just this last half hour you have in casual conversation used the words austere, luxuriant, conundrum, champers, and callipygian."

Stensland reaches across the bar with his little cocktail napkin and—

"…hang on you've got a smooch of…hold still…it's…"

—dabs at something wet on Clyde's snazzy artificial limb. Stensland does not know why he feels duty bound to keep Clyde's prosthetics pretty, he just knows he does. "I learned that last one from you if you'll recall."

They both did, indeed, recall. And though Stensland Feye has the fluttery eyelashes, the pretty accent, and the wan slimness of a consumptive poet, a poet he is not.

That is always gonna be Clyde.

Like that time Stensland wore his last marginally-clean clothes, stared at the result in the mirror and complained, "Good lord I look like I rolled in something sticky, flung myself at the laundry, and just wore what stuck"?

Well, that very time Clyde came up behind him, lipped softly at his sweetheart's neck, then whispered, "It must've been the sweetest honey you rolled in." And from that day to this Clyde lips softly at Stensland's neck come bedtime, whispering, "Night night Honey" before one of them tucks himself up close to the other.

Then there was that time Clyde finally got to see Stensland naked in full daylight.

Right on through their first three weeks he'd only ever seen Stens' bare skin in the muzzy half-light of dawn or the low light of the bar (Clyde'll always remember with fondness that night he locked up, dimmed the overheads, and they went and christened a couple booths), but that fourth week?

Well, forgetting to be shy, Stens got out of Clyde's big bed buck naked and scampered across the cold floor to the bathroom, jiggling beautifully the whole way.

When his boyfriend (yep, they were saying that to each other already, heck they said it the second time they'd kissed) crawled back in bed, Clyde solemnly told Stensland that he had a callipygian ass. While Clyde would've gone down on that ass had Stensland _not_ known that the word meant well-shaped buttocks, the fact that he _did_ know just meant Clyde was even happier to devote a solid half hour to eating him out.

Finally, all those times Stensland wakes of a morning with his pretty ginger hair in a rucked up tangle at the back, as often as not legacy of having spent the evening before wriggling under their blankets to get at Clyde's "lovely willy"?

Well by the fifth or sixth time Clyde had seen Stensland go out the door with that messy tangle and return with the thing in the exact same state, how could he _not_ call his sweetheart—

"Come on my little cockatoo, I'm done for the night and I'm hungry."

Stensland rubbed his tummy full of festive refreshments and said, "Where too my captain?"

Clyde planted an elbow on the bar and murmured, "Home I think. I'm hungry for something…well-shaped."

Stensland blinked a bit and then Stensland reached across the bar with his crumpled little cocktail napkin and dabbed at the corner of Clyde's mouth. Sheer muscle memory from the last time Clyde had dined on something…well-shaped.

Then Stens tucked his t-shirt into his pants and scampered toward the door.

Clyde watched, knowing his little cockatoo knew that he was. Then Clyde dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the thumb of his prosthetic. Oh yeah, he was certainly going to eat well tonight.

—  
_Winklepicker and I have a thing. A Domhnall thing. It's pretty big. Like…Starkiller big. So we were discussing Domhnall's[ever-mussed hair in Crash Pad](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/167741328049/fic-little-cockatoo-across-the-universe), she said "his little cockatoo head" then a_secret_scribbler added the thing about laundry, I made up a fae surname for the cute little cockatoo and here we are.  
_


	8. Baby Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techie & Matt
> 
> Techie's walking around their quarters and cooing at the tiny baby strapped to his narrow chest, burbling little spit bubbles at her, and Matthew Kee is sure of one simple thing:
> 
> He is absolutely going to pass out from sexual arousal and acute adoration.

The planet on which Matthew Kee grew up took a long time recovering from the war.

With all they'd lost over two generations, with all they had to put right for a generation more, somehow Matt just never took the time to think about children or a family. Whether he wanted that, whether he should.

Well. He was certainly thinking about it _now._

_Five minutes._

Though he acknowledges that forgetting to actually lift the weights in his hands while panting open-mouthed might not exactly be called 'thinking.' Whatever it is, Matt knows he's doing it becau—

_Kriff!_

—se of _that._ Because Techie is walking around their quarters and cooing at the tiny baby strapped to his narrow chest, burbling little spit bubbles back at her, and Matt is pretty sure he's going to pass out from sexual arousal and acute adoration. Then Gala shifts Lt. Hilo's baby in her papoose—"That's what it's called Mattie, a papoose"— so he can blow noisy kisses down the neck of her tiny t-shirt and Matt realizes he actually possibly really might. Pass out. Maybe.

_Four minutes._

"Mattie."

Matt stops tugging at things and looks into his love's big blue eyes, but Techie doesn't say anything else. He just…gazes through his lashes over the top of the baby's head. Now Matt realizes something else.

"You're doing it on purpose baby, aren't you?"

Galacian Asha'Techk grins himself a coy blush and says more nothing. When the baby pat-pats at his mouth as if in admonition, Techie lips her little fingers, then whispers around them, "What'm I doing Mattie?"

_Three minutes._

See, here's the thing: Matt knows that Techie knows the effect he's having, but Matt's still going to go and tell. Because these two talk; they _say_ things. So though he knows Gala knows, Matt goes and tells him anyway.

"You're making me fall in love with you some more."

Techie's a slim man, yes, but he _is_ a man. Man-tall, man-big, so when he looks through those bright, bright lashes again and holds up his hand so the baby can pat-pat his much-bigger palm, Techie knows the size difference is pounding Matt's heart hard, driving an instinctual want for two simple things.

To protect.

And fuck.

Techie knows the truth of this because Techie's thought about kids and families. When you grow up around space ports, when your mam works in them and you then follow in her footsteps, well you see a _sea_ of children.

_Two minutes._

Soft little Wookiees and Ewoks, tiny Twi'leks with lekku that stand straight up, Caver kids white as snow drifts, little Sentients of all sorts waiting with families for ships going the Ag Circuit or along the Metellost Run, and sometimes those little ones fidget themselves out of sorts while they wait and so they cry and cry.

But always they'd fall silent for the red-haired kid, who became the lanky teen, who then became the man who cooed at them, clicking his pupils big, bigger, biggest then small, smaller, smallest until they laughed and laughed.

Techie's mam would see and say, "Oh baby boy, one of these days that's gonna get you whatever you want" and to be honest he didn't understand what she meant for a long time.

He does now. Because Mattie's eyes right now. Those beautiful browns are big and _blown._

Mattie wants what he sees.

Techie sees the chrono on the wall behind Mattie's head.

_One minute._

Lieutenant Hilo had to work late but Gala knows her shift is over now. She's only a couple dozen decks distant, the journey's about five minutes. And Hilo's _always_ on time.

Techie holds out his pinky until the baby takes it. He lets her pull it to her mouth, where she gnaws at it. He leans close and croons in the baby's ear, soft, sweet babbly noises.

And Gala looks at the pulse he can see in Matt's bare neck, kriff, he can see it all the way down to his bare chest. A thud-thud-thud right there over his heart.

_Four…three…two…_

A knock on the door and Techie goes to it. There's a couple dozen words, promises of taking a shift, more noisy kisses and cooing.

Then Galacian Asha'Techk closes the door to their snug, warm quarters and leans against it. He looks at Mattie, click-clicking until his baby blues are big and _blown._

Techie wants what he sees.

He strips until he's bare-chested, until Matt can see the pounding of his heart. A beat that says clear as anything two things.

Protect.

And fuck.

—  
_A ginger man "needs to be blowing raspberries at a child in a papoose" said Winklepicker and you try resisting that prompt, I dare you. I_ double _dare you. (But please don't resist prompting me for any of the ships below!)_


	9. It's Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor & Loki
> 
> Loki Laufeyson doesn't know why he goes away, but go he does. There's always something out there to pursue not because Loki needs it, but because Loki needs to pursue it.
> 
> When he’s gone, there’s always one thing in Asgard Loki misses.
> 
> Just one.

Loki misses home.

He's far from it right now, in an Alfheim castle not listening to some decrepit Elf ruler drone on and on and Loki Laufeyson is missing home.

He doesn't know why he goes away, but go he does. He's always leaving to look for something the next realm over, or the one after that. Something in the vault of a scarred warrior-queen or locked beneath the throne of some godless priest-king. There's always a tesseract to want or an chrono-mirror to have or in the case of this old mage in front of him, the secret tongue to changing skies. There's always _something_ to pursue not because Loki needs it, but because Loki needs to _pursue_ it.

It's complicated.

Less so is how much he misses what he leaves behind. There's the obvious stuff, like his father's palace of gold and pale granite, its columns so lofty Loki's seen clouds tangled in their stony austerity. Since he can remember, every palace curve and corner has been lavish with some bit of beauty brought back from somewhere in the nine realms, tiny living jewel-trees that thrive on the sound of voices, small orbs inside of which the thunder of waterfalls is trapped, ancient emblems and talismans of races long dead. Except Loki doesn't miss all of that really or rooms so big he gets _bored_ walking from one end to the other and would rather go hungry for half a day than bestir himself all. that. way. and.

It's…complicated.

Or it's not. Because for all his searching _for_ things Loki doesn't actually _miss_ things. He misses doing things, nothing things, lazy things, amusing things. He misses walking the banks of the River Ælyr, looking for candy stones. When they were little he thought Thor had made those things up, that he was teasing Loki and then laughing behind his back when his brother couldn't find the little sweets.

But Thor rarely teases and never to mock though Loki didn't believe that for the longest time, long after he found those rare treats, small night-growing plants that bud round the edges of rocks and do indeed look for all the worlds like stones yet taste so, so sweet. Thor is always better at finding them; he's better at sharing what he finds, too, breaking the tiny treats smaller still and waiting for Loki to open his mouth for each morsel. It's a game, whether Loki'll bite his brother's big fingers or suck. Neither knows until he's done it.

Loki misses too-warm days when he sends everyone away—"all of you, everyone, go somewhere that isn't here I'm hot and inclined to take it out on you, or you, or _you"_ he says pointing and scowling. Palace servants scatter and Loki strips down to his white skin and finds a spot where a breeze blows off the balcony and he lies on the cool stone floor, reading this or that until he dozes. Often as not he'll wake up long after chilly nightfall has come, in bed and curled close to his brother's heat.

Loki misses listening to Thor sing whatever new tune he's learned on Midgard and _always_ the song is _awful_ and Thor's rendition even more so. Loki misses shouting at his brother to "Shut up for the love of all you hold dear," and Thor sneaking up behind him five minutes later to whisper in his ear "Make me," then running away like a child. Loki gives chase every time and every time Loki manages to catch his brother he _makes him._ Then Thor makes him back, for as long as Loki wants and as hard as he begs.

"Pardon?"

Loki pushes a knuckle between thin lips but his moan's already escaped and been heard.

"It's nothing, Great Sky Spinner, just a bit of—" Loki presses the back of his hand to his mouth and manages to look chagrined. The blathering Alfheim fool, with the sky-spanning weather-web Loki's after, just blathers on and on and Loki goes back to staring at nothing much.

It's _not_ complicated. Not really.

When Loki goes away he misses Thor.

Loki always misses Thor.

—  
_Kizzia asked for Thor and Loki doing something deeply domestic and then I started wondering about why Loki is the way he is and everything angsted. Um. I hope that's okay Kizzia. P.S. Do please prompt me on these folks!_


	10. Three Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock
> 
> Sherlock sits primly, clutching an empty coffee cup and refusing to believe Norse gods exist, much less that they leave glittering gold palaces and via some rainbow bridge deign to come pass their time on Earth.
> 
> Thor and Loki are about to pass their time proving this Midgardian wrong.
> 
> John has a few thoughts about that.

Loki Laufeyson splits himself into a dozen Loki Laufeyson. Half of them laugh, the other half preen, and all of them look like a six foot cat with cream.

Sherlock Holmes pulls out a cafe chair, takes a dramatic seat _in_ that chair, and at the god of mischief Sherlock makes a moue.

Displeased with the attractive Midgardian's sneer at his brother, Thor Odinson scowls. Thunder rolls sharp over Speedy's cafe. _Only_ over Speedy's cafe.

It is only with great restraint that Sherlock Holmes does not stamp his foot.

That's as far as Sherlock's moderation goes however, for his mouth quickly elbows right past the gates of self-control, letting loose with a whine of, _"That's not possible."_

Beside Sherlock at one of Speedy's tiny tables, John Watson catches the eye of the barista. He orders himself another espresso with nothing more than a curt nod. Janie Chatterjee replies in curt kind. It is not lost on either woman nor man that their transaction feels very _The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly._

Except, in this case, there are no cowboy hats or cigarellos, there's no sand or sun, there's just Sherlock Holmes sitting primly, clutching an empty coffee cup and refusing to believe Norse gods exist, much less leave glittering gold palaces and via some _rainbow bridge_ deign to come pass their time on Earth.

However, because they are essentially rich space kids with too much time on their hands, Thor and Loki are, indeed, passing some time on earth. Currently they're using it to prove this uppity Midgardian wrong.

So Loki's making a bunch of Lokis and Thor's calling down thunder and that they're doing this during Speedy's lunch rush, a time so busy that a man (or god) could strip naked in the tiny foyer without receiving so much as a distracted glance, just goes super-duper extra-far toward annoying the shit out Sherlock _even more._

"John, are you seeing this?" Sherlock says in tones so strident a dog outside barks. "This… _performance?"_

John is seeing the steam rising from his espresso. Janie pulls a perfect espresso, she really does. After taking a sip to confirm what he already knows—yep, perfect—John glances up. He sees what Sherlock sees—multiple gods and all. He nods, unphased.

Because here's the thing.

Dr. John Watson is five years married to a man who essentially reads minds. This man also carries the entire map of London in his head, computer-like. He's told apart a set of triplets by the shift of one freckle, can deduce sealife, and once even tasted the difference between O+ and AB- blood. At this point John can believe three impossible things before breakfast and so this? Gods of thunder and mischief? Easy damn peasy.

"It's a trick. What you're doing. Hocus pocus." Sherlock is now standing in the middle of Speedy's tiny aisle, hands on hips. He and his broad booty are making a bottleneck. They're blocking people. People who want to eat their lunch.

John looks at Janie. Janie looks at Thor. Thor looks at Loki. Loki grins and nods curtly.

The rich space kids each take a Holmesian elbow. Thor does a spinning thingy with his hammer. He's good at it; doesn't even rattle anyone's flatware. A couple seconds later Sherlock Holmes, Thor Odinson, and Loki Laufeyson disappear. No one but John and Janie seem to notice.

John checks his watch. They're due at Scotland Yard at three p.m. He wonders if he should call and beg off.

Janie notices John's glance. "Shouldn't be more than an hour John. Pretty as Asgard is they'll probably take him to Muspelheim, home of the fire demons. I suggested south Vanaheim, where poppa and I are from but Loki's such a drama queen and you know how they are."

John nods. He knows. Boy does he know. He accepts the free mocha and muffin Janie places before him. He also accepts that Mr. Chatterjee's daughter, currently studying business law at London School of Economics, is apparently from somewhere across a sparkling rainbow bridge.

Slightly more difficult to accept is the need for a curry-raisin muffin but after a bite he nods curtly. It's good. Really good.

John sets the timer on his watch for an hour. He might even have time for a sandwich, too.

Janie nods curtly, and starts making an egg mayonnaise.

_—  
DaisyFairy said to think how indignant Sherlock would be about Thor and Loki 'magic' and so I did. Thank you Daisy! P.S. I stole 'rich space kids' from Taika Waititi, who directed Thor: Ragnarok, and who essentially said that that's what Thor and Loki are._


	11. What's Your Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde & Stensland
> 
> Mellie Logan very nearly despairs. The world is a difficult place. Mostly because people don't let other people be. They mess with them for being gay or having one arm or being too big.
> 
> Then some of those gay, one-armed, big people go and have weird obsessions like how mistletoe could kill you just as easy as get you a kiss…

"A pretty man and I discussed kissing last night."

Jimmy Logan continued to sip his scalding-hot coffee. Mellie Logan choked on hers. Clyde Logan placed three empty bowls on the bar between himself and his siblings.

Understand this: Mellie was not shocked that her big brother was talking kissing with a man and sounded happy about it. No, Mellie _was_ shocked that her brother shared this fact in reply to, "Any of that macaroni left?"

Clyde was pretty sure there was some of that macaroni left. Hence the bowls. He thought he'd wait until his sister stopped choking before going to get it though. Eventually Mellie did recover, for a certain value of recover. After, she looked at Jimmy on the stool beside her, at Clyde on the other side of the bar, then at Jimmy again.

"I been teaching him how to focus on _nice_ things. Things without the word curse in them, mostly."

Mellie waited but apparently that was Jimmy done, so she looked at Clyde and waved two hands in a _talk now talk faster_ gesture.

"Well," Clyde said, then said nothing else. He took a deep breath, seemed to think. Then he grabbed the bowls, ducked out from under the bar, and headed to the kitchen. Mellie followed as if tethered, Jimmy close behind despite the twinge in his knee. It hated rainy nights. It was pretty good with rainy _days_ though, which he could never figure out.

"Well, he's been comin' into the bar for a couple weeks now." Clyde said, poking inside the fridge. "He's funny. Funny ha-ha but funny different, too. But good different."

Like the macaroni, actually. It had curry in it. It was the cook's secret ingredient except it wasn't really secret. Clyde unearthed the stuff, divided it up, handed a bowl to his sister and his brother. It was the Logan way to eat leftover macaroni and cheese cold. They returned to the bar proper, which was empty on account of it being a stormy Tuesday.

"He's really pretty. Awkward as anything. Worse than Jimmy around Mrs. Hadid and that's saying something."

Jimmy Logan frowned, fork halfway to mouth. "She saw my bare butt when I was at an awkward age Clyde."

Mellie patted Jimmy's bum knee. She might be the youngest but she had twice their chutzpah. "It's okay Jimmy, if it doesn't work out with Sylvia I think Mrs. Hadid's a sure thing."

Jimmy frowned some more and made a _talk now talk faster_ gesture at his brother.

Clyde got on with it. "Well, his name's Stensland and I don't know what sort of name that is except his and yesterday we were talking about all the holidays coming up what with Kwanzaa and Hanukkah and Christmas and all that, which went and got us to mistletoe."

The sound of rain spiked as the door outside opened. Mellie dropped her voice and said, "Tell me you did not flirt with the man by telling him mistletoe is poison."

Clyde did not speak for a bit and when he did it was to mumble to his macaroni. "I might have mentioned that it is a _toxic_ plant."

Mellie very nearly despairs. The world is a difficult place. Mostly because people don't let other people be. They mess with them for being gay or having one arm or being too big. Then some of those gay, one-armed, big people go and have weird obsessions about curses and legends and odd ball stuff like how mistletoe could kill you just as easy as get you a kiss.

Clyde glanced at the rain-drenched man taking a seat a couple stools down from his sister. "But mostly I said about how it's bad luck if you don't kiss someone when they're under the mistletoe."

Jimmy paused with the last bite of macaroni halfway to his mouth. "Just because Becca said you'd fail that math test because you didn't kiss her doesn't make something cursed, Clyde."

More conversation with his macaroni. "It does cause I _did."_

Everyone knew Clyde shouldn't have failed that test, what with all the studying he'd done, but for as smart as he was when he put his mind to a thing, the one thing Clyde Logan just didn't seem to get was _self-fulfilling prophecies._

Shortly though he _did_ get a bartender's duty, so he put a cocktail napkin in front of the new arrival, turned to the beer cooler. Mellie glanced at the stranger, angled her back and whispered. "Damn it, that's not how you flirt."

Jimmy might be trying to teach Clyde to focus less on all the jinxy stuff he was always on about, but Mellie was trying to teach him proper _courting._ Talking about curses and killer plants was just not the way to do it.

Clyde placed a bottle of Guinness in front of the stranger. Mellie waited for him to come back over so she could whisper some more but Clyde didn't come back over. He stood in front of the stranger and stared at him.

Mellie very nearly despairs. Clyde's always had a thing for redheads but _staring_ wasn't—

Mellie didn't even know she'd grabbed Jimmy's bum knee until he said, "Ouch." She let go, but her brother was already looking where she was looking and where Mellie and Jimmy were looking was over at the red-haired stranger looking back at their brother.

The guy was wearing something on his head that with a couple seconds study was clearly, so clearly, very, very clearly a scraggly crown of mistletoe. Mellie knew for actual fact that the stuff grew in some of the trees near the bar. In which case this stranger was, he was the, he…Mellie clutched Jimmy's trouser-leg so tight he half-slid off his stool.

"Good evening Stensland." Clyde's voice was low and it was happy. Mellie clutched tighter and Jimmy just went and stood up, peeping around his sister's head.

"It's a very _fine_ evening," said the drenched, dripping, half-shivering stranger.

Clyde gestured. "I'm wondering if that's mistletoe you're wearing on your head."

Stensland blushed right on up to some impressive eyebrows. "It is. I myself gathered it from the local trees."

Mellie did not so much as blink. Jimmy held his breath. Clyde placed his flesh-and-blood hand on the bar.

"Best be careful Stens."

"Because mistletoe is poisonous?"

Clyde placed his prosthetic hand on the bar. "No sir."

"Because mistletoe is cursed?"

Clyde shook his head. "No sir."

Mellie did not breathe. Jimmy did not blink.

"I just don't want that beer bottle to tip when I lean over this bar to kiss you."

Later, after the storm had blown through, the stranger no longer was one, the bar was locked tight, and the macaroni was followed by some nice pie, Clyde told his sister, "I'm afraid I will no longer be taking courting advice from a woman who fist-pumps the air, hooting, 'Tongue, tongue, tongue, give him some tongue.'"

Stensland put his lucky green crown on Clyde's head, stood on tip-toe, and said, "I will."

And he did.

—  
_This may well be the fluffiest thing I've ever written. I dedicate this wee thing to[Australia's wonderful marriage equality law](https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/live/2017/dec/07/politics-australia-marriage-equality-citizenship-turnbull-shorten) passing today!_


	12. Not What You're Not, But What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde & Stensland
> 
> Stensland is not a condor. He's not an eagle, either. Stens not any of those big, chesty birds, the kind with talons and hooked beaks and resting bitch faces. 
> 
> No, nope, Stensland Feye's something else entirely and he knows _exactly_ what.

Stensland is not a condor.

He's not an eagle, either.

Basically, Stens is not any one of those big, chesty birds, the kind with talons and hooked beaks and resting bitch faces.

No, no matter how many times Stensland mantras himself to some sort of feathered nobility, he knows what he actually is and what he actually is, is a budgerigar.

Not just any budgie either, no. Stensland Feye's one of those puffy headed ones his grammy used to love. Except his shoulders are narrower.

Anyway, the point is, years of staring in a mirror and pronouncing himself of the family Cathartidae has not, in actual fact, made him anything at all like them.

He steps back from the mirror on Clyde's bureau, the better to frown at a greater portion of what he is not, but quick-smart he bumps against Clyde's bed. He frowns in the mirror even quicker, checking he's not woke his—Stensland smothers a sudden giddy cackle—his boyfriend.

_Boyfriend._

Talk about condors. Or eagles. Or big, chesty birds. Stensland sighs and stares at Clyde Logan via the medium of the mirror and that staring? Well it takes awhile.

Because Clyde is an order of magnitude. That's what Stens says to anyone who'll listen, whether the saying makes much sense or not. "An order of magnitude he is. That's Clyde. That's Clyde aplenty."

Before too long and as it so often does, Stens' gaze starts flick-flicking between the reflected images of them both and indeed, no matter what you measure, Clyde's an order-of-magnitude mountain to Stensland's skinny mole hill and, pausing on his way back from a dawn piddle, Stens looks and looks and he wonders sometimes, he just wonders why on earth the mountain wants his tiny mole hills. Why would—

"Did you ever look at a man that looks just like you and think, 'he's a handsome fella and I'm going to ask him out'?"

Stensland squeaks like a startled budgie and turns, index fingers reflexively fig-leafing his nipples. "What?"

Clyde sits up, says careful, "Do you tend to desire men who look just like you Stens? Just exactly like you?"

Stensland blinks a bit, then slow-shakes his head.

"No you do not. Most of us look for something outside the mess of ourselves." Here Clyde lifts his arms, as if to imply, as if to insinuate, as if to suggest, indicate or hint that he is _in any way some sort of mess._

Stensland puffs up like a small, angry bird.

But before he can hold forth in defense of his love, Clyde gestures with the arm missing its hand and says, "I see you lookin between us and I have to wonder, do you see just how beautiful you are?"

Stensland blink-blinks a bit more, then he ducks under the blanket at the foot of Clyde's bed, shimmies up, and stretches out on top of his boyfriend, ear against a broad chest. And Clyde talks.

"You are like actual light to me," he says, fingers pitter-pattering over Stensland's white arm. "No moles or freckles or nothin, no patches of hair that'll only ever be bitty patches that don't grow in, just all this wonderful _brightness_."

Those fingers tip-toe up into red hair. "And if this is not in fact actual sunshine then I am Barbara Mandrell and we know I ain't cause I can't sing."

Stensland bites both lips to smother giggles that might, oh they just might hush these syrup-sweet words and what a tragedy that would be. So Stens stays so quiet and so still, and Clyde, well he is not hushed.

"I know you're half my size in some directions but you are the biggest man in the world when you laugh. I can hear you across the bar and right on out in the parking lot sometimes and every time I think how lucky I am someone with such a big heart loves _me_ with it."

Clyde shrugs, a mountain shifting. "Maybe I'm not saying any of this right. I just think you should know that to me you're like something fine on the wind, light and perfect, and I want to follow you wherever you blow."

After a second Clyde starts up laughing, then Stensland follows, giggling so much he slides right off his mountain and down to the soft earth of their warm bed. He keeps going with the theme of _down_ so he can continue on with an interpretation of _blow,_ laughing even louder when Clyde squeaks at the ticklish brush of lips on the inside of his big thighs.

Stensland doesn't lip there long, putting that pretty mouth to the pleasurable employment of sucking his sweetheart's willy. (Always willy, never dick, cock, or penis. Clyde giggled the first time he heard Stens say it but now _he_ says it and Jimmy giggles, but Clyde's not going to think about his big brother when his willy's being sucked by his beautiful boyfriend so that's just stopping right now.)

What starts is Clyde's little noises, not words really but pleasure breathed out soft, while his hand strokes in stop-starts across Stensland's forehead.

It's barely dawn, the world outside is misty and silent, so time stretches long and sweet for them as both of Stensland's hands work warm over Clyde's body. As he sucks, Stensland draws his knees closer together, rounds his shoulders, lean as a blade and fitting perfect so that Clyde can settle comfortable and do—

—Stensland groans. _That._ Arms raising up to push at the headboard, long legs stretching out and _then, then, then_ oh then Clyde's thighs press and shiver tight either side of Stensland's arms and now Stens feels every little bit of what his touches do to this beautiful man.

It's wonderfully raw in its inelegance. A flick of tongue around the head of Clyde's cock brings graceless twitches up, first one leg and then the other. Sucking deep makes his thighs squeeze until ribs squeak and when Clyde realizes what he's doing he slides his own arms between his knees, prying them away from his love's body but Stens just pushes them away, flicking his tongue again until Clyde's legs are stuttering again.

So it goes and goes and goes because it's barely dawn out there and there's no heat or responsibility yet, there's only the soft light and silence, except there isn't that any more, is there? No, because Clyde keeps sighing, _"Ah,"_ every time Stensland strokes, then moaning all chesty when Stens sucks. It's a waiting game they play, this, where they simply let their bodies go without minds pushing forward with _hurry up, gotta go to work,_ or a _he must be bored by now_ or any of the mental stuff that sharp-edges sex into something a little less lazy and loving.

Their bodies do get there eventually though, that's the point, so when Stensland feels again the firm press of Clyde's thighs against his arms and they're shivering fast as hummingbird wings, Stensland is just thinking _warm, warm, warm_ as he swallows everything.

Afterward Clyde is thinking he feels mighty lazy and maybe he can get Stens to wiggle up and sit on his face but then the thing happens that sometimes happens even though Stensland tries to pretend that it's not. He starts to kind of…choke. No, not choke, retch. No, not that either it's…it's a sort of gargling sound only with spit, only it's not really gargling it's—

"A hair?"

Stensland doesn't mean to full body heave, he really doesn't, but for whatever reason he can not, he absolutely can not swallow genital hairs. It's not that he _won't,_ it's just for some reason his body can't, his throat kind of goes all dry and closes up and he feels the curly thing sitting back there and he starts to kind of gag in a way he never does on Clyde's willy and then—

Clyde's already put his prosthetic arm on, its black hand and fingers far slimmer than the one of flesh-and-blood, and he takes Stens' chin gentle and peers into his love's mouth, mumbling. "Sorry I'm such a shedder…don't know how I have any hair anywhe…ah there it is…just…hold still and." A slow scrape, a delicate pinch, and Clyde holds a kinky hair up in the drowsy light, smiling triumphant. Then he lets the tiny thing go and wiggles spit-slick black-and-silver fingers between them. "Now you've gone and made my hand all wet and warm."

A blood and bone arm around a narrow waist, a tip over on to the mattress, some slick, and pretty soon a prosthetic finger slides into Stensland's ass as Stensland slides into Clyde's mouth. Cupping a jiggly butt cheek with his other hand, Clyde closes his eyes and tries to give as good as he so recently got but it's a tough one, that, it's tough cause he can't quite stop smiling and smiling's not so great for sucking but he does his best and his best turns out to be pretty good because after a bit Stens is making high sounds, then panting _lovey, oh lovey._ Clyde's always amazed that such a skinny man produces _so_ much come but he does and Clyde swallows it up.

Drowsy and syrup slow a bit later, Clyde kicks the already-too-hot sheets off their bodies, watching Stensland's slim white fingers on his now-bare arm, stroking slow right at the spot of his amputation. He thinks what he always does: that Stensland touches all of him the same, that he _loves_ all of him, even the bits he puts on the table at night.

Finally, as if they'd never stopped the morning's slow conversation, Clyde says soft against Stensland's hair, "It's not what you're not, it's what you _are."_

Then Clyde sneak-attack tickles his boyfriend until Stensland cackles loud and long, the biggest man in the whole room.

_—  
From slim Stensland fitting so well between Clyde's legs, to Clyde's prosthetic fitting so well in Stens' mouth, these lovelies…they're made for each other. P.S. Here's [Stens and that budgie](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/169040091619/fic-not-what-youre-not-but-what). P.P.S. Always hoping for prompts, see below!_


	13. Fecking Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock
> 
> It all began because Sherlock Holmes needed a case and John Watson, his preferred dealer, was not getting him one...

Don't tell Sherlock Holmes something is impossible.

There's a good reason for that and it's this:

Telling Sherlock something's impossible is like telling him you've seen a space ship in Hyde Park. Or you met Elvis at Tesco. It's like telling him Anderson is a skilled pathologist, eggplant is delicious, or white chocolate mocha is a sensible coffee drink. In short, telling Sherlock Holmes any of these things is telling Sherlock a known and obvious falsehood.

Except that's not actually why you shouldn't tell Sherlock something is impossible, no.

The real reason you shouldn't do that is because it fucking god damn mother fucking keeps John I-will-cry-or-I-will- _cut-you_ Watson up for most of six god damn nights and by the end of this sixth one John has grave doubts he'll ever be fully sane again.

Wait. Perhaps…perhaps this story should begin a bit earlier.

Or maybe not so much, because really the story starts as so many of Sherlock's do: It began because he needed a case and John, his preferred dealer, was not _getting_ him one.

And _that_ was because it was the second of January when Sherlock had his case conniption and John was _not_ in the mood. Christmas had passed, new year had just gone, and do you know what? The world was still shit. 2017 had not turned out better than 2016 and the good doctor was _not_ holding out fucking hope for 2018, no. So, laid low with a bad-mad-no-good case of the _"Phhhft, just fuck it,"_ blues, John wanted nothing more than to cocoon on the sofa with the TV remote, a pack of ginger nuts, and twelve cups of tea, there to hibernate until March or until his bladder gave out. Either or.

Which is by way of explaining why John wasn't going to get the case Sherlock quote unquote _"needed or I will go insane."_

No, it was detective inspector Aine Mahoney-Singh who helped Sherlock out and the DI did not do this out of the goodness of her over-tired heart but because she was new to the London Met and therefore completely ignorant of the care-and-feeding of cranky consulting detectives.

So, the sixth time Sherlock ghosted through the Met's Kensington-Chelsea borough (he was giving the city a wide berth after shouting "I will personally murder a half dozen people just to have something to _do!"_ as the chief superintendent entered Lestrade's office) Mahoney-Singh did a thing so as to get Sherlock out of her hair and that thing was this: She told him something was impossible.

Specifically, the DI told Sherlock that if he could solve in the next week the outstanding cases she'd inherited from "your man Murphy in the city office, that fecking mother fecking lazy arse who left me with fourteen open cases before retiring to fecking Gibraltar to feed fecking baby monkeys or something? Yeah, solve those and I'll _think_ about giving you something else but since you can't"—this is the bit Sherlock heard as _it's impossible—_ "I need you to get the fecking feck out of my fecking office right now."

John never learned what followed immediately after all that swearing, but it resulted in Sherlock coming home with fourteen case files (one so fat it took _both_ his giant paws to hold it) and then sitting cross-legged on the back of the sofa like some fecking monkey and scattering hundreds of bits of paper from one end of the sitting room to the other and every time John so much as inhaled sharply from another room Sherlock shouted, "Ah, perfect you're awake! I've got us tickets for the train to Brighton in an hour, then a flight to the Hebrides in the morning and—"

All this by way of saying that during this week, which John will write up as _Fourteen Impossible Things Before Breakfast,_ Sherlock solved every single case, including finding the Hong Kong hidey-hole of a larcenous muffin mogul and discovering a rare diamond in an uncooked chicken egg and through it all John hasn't had more than catnaps and if he ever as in _ever_ has a moment to have honest words with detective inspector Aine Mahoney-Singh, John Watson will absolutely, positively…just make happy cow eyes at her, like, _really_ hard.

Because Sherlock never solves a case with more joy than when he's been told he can't, and though John's so exhausted he's pretty sure he's hallucinating, he's also absolutely delighted with Sherlock's delight.

And, though he'd murder half a dozen people for a cup of tea, sitting in Mahoney-Singh's office and listening to the wide-eyed DI whisper _"Amazing! Brilliant! No fecking way!"_ , well, John was okay.

Sure, the world was still in a fucking state but his small part of it? It was good. And now John remembered it was up to him to help _make_ it good. Yeah, he had that power.

What he _didn't_ have though was any more muffins, so there was nothing to feed those little monkeys capering around Mahoney-Singh's file cabinets.

Shame.

—  
_Yes, John is hallucinating and a random thing I recently learned was that apparently some Irish holiday in Gibraltar and frolic with[the monkeys there](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/169591290599/fic-fecking-impossibleit-all-began-because) and if they do they can't donate blood when they get home. Don't ask me why I had to share that. This is a weird author note. I'm sorry you're welcome._


	14. Tangled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techie & Matt
> 
> Techie speaks a language that only Mattie knows…

_Two, three, fo—wait. What._

"Uh. Techie? Is this a…twig?"

Reflex quick: "No."

Matt squinted at the thing judged not a twig. It was a twig. He held it at arm's length so Techie could see it, too. Techie turned his head the other way.

Right, okay, whatever.

_Fourteen, fifteen, sixte—wait._

Matt leaned forward. "Uh, is this…" He sniffed the back of Techie's head. "…salt nettle _jam?"_

_"No."_

Matt dabbed his tongue at the spot that seemed but was deemed _not_ jam. It was jam.

That's when Techie harumphed and started wiggling his butt. Reflex quick Matt looked down, to see what sort of wiggle it was.

Because there's the bad butt wiggle Techie does when he's waited too long to pee. That wiggle walks his ass to the end of a chair until it's fall off or get to the fresher.

There's the good wiggle he does in the mess hall sometimes and Matt doesn't even have to look. Clear as day that wiggle says dew cake's on the menu.

This wiggle was neither of those but because he's an adept at Techie bum speak Matt knew this one was a warning and that went something like this.

_Matthew Kee, I am only allowing you to brush my hair because you bought me a pretty pink hair comb and matching pretty panties and then gave me puppy eyes but I can take these off you know and go the kriff to bed._

True enough, Matt _had_ begged to brush Techie's hair. True too is that Mattie Kee loves his love heart and soul, but when you think maybe you saw something moving in those red tangles this morning, well what you do is quick-smart you buy your boy some bribes and, with some big, brown-eyed blinking, you convince him to sit on the bed and let you count out the strokes as you comb.

Matt did _not_ convince Techie to listen to the detail of what that comb found.

So Matt apologized. He pushed to the left that bit that had had the twig, and he pushed to the right that bit still knotted with jam, and Mattie then leaned in warm-breath close and soft as anything he lipped and nibbled and kissed Techie's neck full of shivers.

And _that's_ when Techie started up with one of the good butt wiggles. And this one, oh this one Matt, Mattie, 'my big beautiful boy,' this one he knows, because Techie taught it to him in the dark and this wiggle, it can be gently, roughly, wetly, translated to something like this.

_Finish Mattie, finish finish untangling my hair, then take these pretty pink panties off me and tangle me, Mattie, tangle me up in you._

And Mattie did.

—  
_This was prompted and posted on Tumblr, when a-secret-scribbler asked what Mattie finds when Techie lets him comb his tangled hair._


	15. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When presented with a tiny psychotic, Clyde Logan has himself some thoughts.

Stensland is bleeding, wounds streaking meandering red trails through the nearly-there hairs on Stens' arms and legs.

It's the only thing Clyde sees when he walks through Jimmy's screen door, those ugly smears marring pretty skin, his heart rate kicking up fast.

"Baby," he says, plastic bags thunked to the floor, reaching to steamroller his bloody love toward the couch.

Instead Stens boops his nose, ducks under Clyde's arms and scampers off, disappearing into the brown shadows of Jimmy's over-paneled kitchen.

The good Mr Logan pauses right there, watches Stens' empty space, and he thinks himself a few things.

1) First off, he thinks that picking up fixin's from the Sav-A-Lot had taken him only about ten minutes, most of those he spent standing on line. Then it was twice more than the one minute it shoulda taken to walk back because he kept holding his arms way out to keep cold ice creams away from his warm legs. Anyways, ten minutes isn't enough time for Stensland to get mauled by a bear or anything, is it?

Well.

2) In _less_ than ten minutes Clyde Logan has watched Stensland Feye go from pretty as a picture in a fitted suit, to wiping flop sweat off his naked body after meeting Clyde's extended family. Clyde has also seen Stens take less then _two_ minutes to go from snot-level sobbing after a sad movie to grunting happily with Clyde's tongue up his butt.

Which is to say Clyde's skinny love can streak from delight to despondent to delight faster than most people can register a hitch in their own breathing.

And.

3) Jimmy Logan once punched two big kids right in the back of their dumb heads when they picked on his little brother. Those big dumb kids proceeded to thrash Jimmy until four-year-old Clyde screamed blue murder so loud they ran off, afraid their seven-year-old asses would go to jail for little kid homicide.

What that means is this: If some sort of backwoods bear _had_ wandered into Jimmy's trailer and tried to get fresh with Stensland, Clyde knows Jimmy would have grabbed a wrench or something and hit the thing right in the back of the head.

Also.

4) Now that he thinks about it, something jumped out of Stensland's arms and scampered off as Clyde came in the door.

_Ah._

Clyde picks up the abandoned plastic sacks and carries them into the kitchen. There he is not at all surprised to find his brother and his boyfriend.

Jimmy holds a beer in one hand and ladle in the other, using both to tell a Clyde-as-kid story, pausing frequently to stir pizza sauce.

Meanwhile, Stensland sits on the kitchen counter, cradling a kitten who repeatedly drives little claw pitons into his bloody, summer-bare flesh. Neither brother or boyfriend pay any mind, too involved in a storytelling call-and-response to notice the mayhem.

So Clyde does a few things.

1) He puts away the ice creams because Sadie will be upset if the ears of her Mickey Mouse pops melt again.

2) He nods to his brother when the doorbell rings because Clyde has something more important to do than answering it.

3) That something is to scoop up the little black psychotic and place her on his forearm, the one ending in his old prosthetic.

When the tiny assassin digs claws into its soft plastic, Clyde whispers, "gotcha little bear," and grins triumphantly at Stens.

Who blinks green eyes wide, jumps off the counter, and squealing like a big _orange_ psychotic scampers from the room shouting, "Little Bear Jimmy! Her name is Little Bear!"

And so the kitten's name did indeed become little bear, while Jimmy became the kitten's new mother.

What _Clyde_ became occurred much later that evening and between Stensland's legs, when his mad love used his penis to knight Clyde as his "very own _big_ bear."

Eager to make good on his new title, Clyde proceeded to maul his naked, Band-Aid covered love real gentle and real, real good.

—  
_I've no idea where this came from but I do know that I need to write more Clydeland. Also you know that Stensland would totally knight Clyde with his penis._

**Author's Note:**

>  **Please prompt**! Here in the comments or on [Tumblr](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AtlinMerrick); pick a ship (Johnlock, Kylux, Techienician, Thorki, BenArmie, Clydeland). Tell me what you want!


End file.
